White Collar: Intervention
by Ruahnna
Summary: It's time for a little tough love. There's an intervention at the Burke house, but not the kind you think...


**Intervention**

The atmosphere at the Burke household, usually so harmonious, was less so at the moment.

"_This_ is an _intervention_," Elizabeth said. Her usually soft gaze was not soft, her blue eyes snapping with electricity.

Peter and Mozzie looked at each other, raised their eyebrows, and then looked around the room. Elizabeth thought seriously about smacking them both. She made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a growl and rolled her eyes.

"But—" Mozzie began.

"Honey—" Peter said.

The two men broke off, scowling at each other, and both opened their mouths to speak.

"_Stop_," Elizabeth said.

"Neal isn't even _here_," Mozzie complained.

"Yeah, how are we—?" Peter stopped, realizing he had just agreed with the weird little man beside him. Mozzie had realized it, too, and he smirked at Peter's confounded expression.

Elizabeth put her hand up and they looked at her. Her expression was _not_ reassuring, and she was pleased to see them shift uncomfortably and exchange wary glances. "This is _not _about_ Nea_l. This is about _you two_."

Mozzie's voice had risen in pitch, betraying his discomfort. He was very fond of El and finding himself on her short list was an unpleasant surprise. "Me ? I know nothing."

"Aren't you supposed to recite your name and serial number?" Peter muttered under his breath.

"Peter—"

"Ha! Nice try, Suit!" Mozzie sniped back, sotto voce. "I'll _never_ bow to your imperialistic ways!"

"Mozzie—that wasn't-"

"Imperialistic? Where do you get _that_?"

"Peter, you're not helping, either!" He waved her off.

Elizabeth wished she had a baseball bat—_or a brick_. She huffed in frustration and the sound—so unfamiliar—made her husband pause.

Peter wasn't used to being on El's short list, either—his wife never appeared to _have_ a list—but something in the set of her face made his gut clench. "Um, El, honey, how can this-?"

She threw her hands up and took a deep breath. "Now I know how _he_ feels," she cried. Mozzie and Peter exchanged glances again, unconsciously uniting against a shared threat. Mozzie's tilted his shining pate microscopically, asking a question with his eyes. Peter shrugged, his eyebrows climbing, and the message was clear. _I have no idea_.

El caught the look and sighed, reminding herself that tact (or outright bluntness) was often better than subtlety when men were involved. "Okay, let's look at this rationally," she said. She turned her eyes on Mozzie. "What do _you_ think Neal should do if his sentence is commuted?"

"Fly. Be free," Mozzie said, looking furtively at Peter. _Was this a trick question?_

"What about _you_, Peter?" El asked. "If they commute Neal's sentence—"

"He should stay on with the Bureau," Peter said.

"Ha! _That's_ a good one, Suit," said Mozzie. "They won't use him unless he's a shill."

"We don't know that," Peter said, annoyed. "Hughes might—"

"Aha! _Might_! Not exactly a sterling vote of confidence!"

"Funny you should mention _sterling_," Peter snapped. "You probably want to drag him back—"

"I drag _no one_, Fed," Mozzie said. His voice was even higher, and he had turned around to glare at Peter balefully. "_You_, on the other hand, have dragged Neal off to jail on _multiple_ occasions—"

"What was I supposed to do—" Peter almost shouted. "He _broke_ the _law_."

"Not the _last_ time," Mozzie shot back. "The last time, he was _framed—_by _another Fed_, and yet _you_ stood by and let them perp-walk him out of the building past all of the people he worked with—"

"I couldn't have intervened if I wanted, " Peter said, his gut clenching again. He had not been able to stop them, but he had done what he could. He'd put the cuffs on himself, tucked his coat over Neal's hands. That long walk had been as hard on him as it had been on Neal, but he wasn't the one who had had to cool his heels in the slammer while they sorted the situation out. "Besides, I didn't _know_ he didn't do it—"

"That's right! That's _right_, you _don't_ know him. You _think_ you know him, but you _don't_. He's never going to be one of you—never!" For a little guy, Mozzie had some volume.

"Well, he's not going to be one of _you_ if I can help it!" Peter thundered. "Neal is _trying_ to do the right thing now." All the doubts Peter had about the artwork and the fire rose up as though someone had blown on the coals of a dormant fire. His mouth tasted like ashes, and he fought to remain in control.

"Ohhh…_right_…." Given the deadly accuracy of his sarcasm, Mozzie probably should have been required to get a concealed-carry permit. "Because—if he _doesn't_ fall in with your oppressive nationalistic propaganda you'll send him back to jail! What _choice_ does he have?"

"Oh! First I'm _imperialistic_, now I'm _nationalistic_!" Peter said, biting off his words. "_Next_ thing you'll accuse me of is being an _anarchist_."

"Works for me!" Mozzie shot, but Elizabeth shook her head. "Mozzie," she said reprovingly. "Peter is _not_ an _anarchist_. He likes things orderly."

"Nobody appreciates order more than me," Mozzie said in an aside to Elizabeth. "And being orderly _does not mean_ you can't also—"

"Oh, for goodness sake—" Peter cried, pushing his hands through his hair. He paced in a tight circle, coming close to Mozzie in the process. The little man edged closer to El and, seeing it, Peter sighed, held up his hands and backed away.

"See, the thing _you_ don't get is that Neal _does_ have choices," Peter gritted. "He's his own man, capable of doing what _he_ thinks is right—if someone we'll _let_ him."

"_Let_ him? I'm not the one who's got him on a short electronic leash," Mozzie said bitterly. "Choices—hah!"

"Oh _yeah_?" Peter said, feeling his face flush. "Well, look where _your_ life choices landed him—in _jail_. And he'd still be there if I hadn't—"

"If _you_ hadn't? If _he_ hadn't—"

"Fine—if _he_ hadn't made the decision to tow the line." _He could go _back, Peter thought grimly. _If he tried to fence the treasure—if he even __**had**__ the treasure, which he might __**not**__—he could go back. _

There was something in Peter's face then that made Mozzie uncomfortable—some anxiety, some sense of anger or maybe despair. His hands twisted around the rings on his right hand. "Well, you may hold all the cards _now_, Suit, but you're fooling yourself if you think he's going to turn into some little automaton that the government controls!"

"He's not an automaton," Peter said wearily. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "He's able to make his own decisions and act on them. Sometimes he screws up. Sometimes _I_ screw up." He thought about the fragment of art depicting the Chrysler building, wondering why its authenticity had not actually reassured him. "It's not perfect, but what else can I do?"

"You want a _list_?" Mozzie said, bellicose with indignation. "I'll write you a whole referendum!"

Peter took a step forward and Mozzie shirked back, but only reflexively. He had no thought of turning tail and running—not _yet_, anyway. He raised himself to his full height and scowled at Peter's chin.

"Oh! And I suppose you think _you_ could do better?" Peter snapped. Worry made him crabby, and his emotions were close to the surface. Fear that he had undermined Neal's progress with his own doubts had plagued him for the last several weeks.

"I did what I could!" Mozzie's heart gave a twist. He had not been of much use while Neal was in jail, but he kept things going on the outside so Neal would have something to come home to. He had not been able to insure that Neal had had _someone_ to come home to—that had been in Kate's hands—but he had done everything in _his_ sphere to soften the landing. "I suppose you think _I_ should have done better!"

"You could _both_ do better." Both men turned and stared at Elizabeth. They had almost forgotten she was there.

"But—" said Peter.

"Well—" said Mozzie.

"And you could stop trying to pull him in two all the time," Elizabeth said.

They gawped at her, then each other.

"I'm not—"

"I didn't—"

"Oh, _please_. You're like two dogs fighting over a bone." At the words "dog" and "bone," Satchmo perked up and wagged his tail. Elizabeth looked at him sorrowfully. "Sorry, Satch—not talking about _you_."

Mozzie shifted, tension radiating off his frame. He _had_ been putting the hard sell on Neal lately, _had_ been pressuring him to make plans to leave, as though Neal wasn't as anxious as _he_ was to get away—away from the _anklet_, away from _Peter and Elizabeth_…. Mozzie was suddenly quite tired of the treasure and the problems surrounding it, and he wasn't very sure that pushing Neal had been the best approach. He cast a worried look at the Suit, but the Suit looked like he had worries of his own.

"C'mon, El—you _know_ me. Sure, I've been tough on Neal lately but you know I'm only doing it because…." She was looking at him, _hearing_ him—and she _did_ know. Which meant she was probably _right_….

"You're both important to him, and I know you're both trying to protect him. I get that. But we used to all get along, play on the same team." She smiled, her eyes hopeful. "Remember Burke's 7? We _definitely_ had it going on _then_."

"It's not fair for Neal to be stuck in the middle all the time." She sighed, her blue eyes beseeching. "Neal needs both of you—he counts on _both of you_ to have his back. But lately…." She did not finish the sentence, but her eyes were frank, pinning them where they stood.

"He started it!" said Mozzie, pointing. Peter's expression darkened.

"It isn't a contest. _Both_ of you should be in _his_ corner," Elizabeth explained patiently. "But you're spending all of your time duking it out in the ring."

Both men looked away and down, shifting uncomfortably.

"It all comes down to _this_, " Elizabeth said. "Do you trust Neal to make his own decisions."

"Yes," said Mozzie. _What if Neal refused to leave?_

"Of _course_ I…okay," Peter said wearily. _If Neal __**did**__ have the treasure, __**did**__ run, he'd bring him back and they'd start over with whatever was left to work with._ "I get it."

Elizabeth threw her hands up. "Then _act_ like it, _okay_? Give Neal some space to breathe. There's a lot on his mind lately."

"Er," said Mozzie.

"Um," said Peter.

They stared at each other uncomfortably.

"If Neal is going to make his own choices—his _own_ choices—then he could certainly use your blessing. Agreed?"

"Agreed," said Mozzie, eyes carefully averted.

"Agreed" said Peter, shamefaced. He looked at Mozzie, amused and pleased to see the other man had been positively quivering with indignation on Neal's behalf. "Look, Mozzie—"

"Haversham," Mozzie insisted, wrapping his dignity around himself.

"Look, Haversham," said Peter at once, and Mozzie looked up in surprise. There was something—a tone, a _pitch_—that smacked of _apology_ in that voice, something he never expected to hear from a Suit. But this was not _any_ Suit—this was Peter. "Um, look—I know you've done right by Neal in the past. There's no need for us to—"

The doorbell rang, and it was all Peter could do to not to jump and shout "F.B.I."

He whirled to look at Elizabeth and found Mozzie doing the same. "Is that—?"

"It's Neal," said El. "I invited him over for lasagna, too." Her look made it plain that Mozzie was considered a guest as well.

"_Lasagna_? But my allergies—"

"Your portion is lactose _and_ milk protein free," El said, then stood and walked gracefully into the kitchen. The doorbell rang again, and Peter and Mozzie looked at each other.

"Your house."

Peter appreciated the gesture, but tried to demur. "Your friend, _too_," he said muttered, contrite.

Mozzie looked pleased and a little surprised, but he was not to be bested. He pointed at his own ankle, then at the door.

"Your responsibility," he said. "_For now_."

"For now," Peter said. He got the door.

A good meal can stun even bitter enemies into a stupor of bonhomie. Peter licked his fingers and picked up the crumbs of tiramisu from his plate, then did the same for the serving dish the pastry had arrived on.

Mozzie and Neal exchanged looks—Neal's amused, Mozzie's horrified.

"You're just mad you didn't think of it first," Peter said. He licked his fingers, unrepentant, then reached for his wineglass.

"Maybe," Neal admitted. When he had arrived at Peter's house, the sight of Mozzie and Peter both standing inside the door had given him a moment's pause. The charming smile had fixed in place, and his eyes had grown wary. "What _is_ this?" he'd asked. "An intervention?"

Teasing or not, there was an edge to his voice that most people would not have noticed. _Most people_.

"Why?" Peter had said, grinning. "What'd you _do_?"

"Don't admit anything," Mozzie had hissed, but both of them had overplayed their part, and Neal had grinned and removed his hat. By the time he'd stepped over the threshold, El was there to greet him warmly. They wasted no time on formalities, but sat down to the rich smells of pasta and tomatoes and herbs. At Elizabeth's request, Neal had opened the wine.

There were several times during the evening when they all heard it, saw it, _felt it_—felt Neal tense after someone's comment, waiting for the other side to lob an answering grenade. But there was no return fire and, eventually, no more grenades coming. Although it could have been blamed on the wine and good food, Neal visibly relaxed and blossomed in the absence of hostilities.

Although the food had been excellent, Elizabeth had waved all the compliments away. "I have an Italian friend on speed dial," she quipped, "and I picked up dessert on the way home."

"Ooh," said Neal. "An Italian on speed dial. Sounds like possible mob connections. What do you think, Peter? Have we found our next case?"

"My next case is figuring out how to get rid of you two so I can be alone with my beautiful wife," he said, and again—he overplayed it to a hilt. If anything, Neal slouched further into his chair, making a show of making himself at home.

"Your beautiful wife shouldn't be stuck with the clean-up," Mozzie had said, mugging for El.

"That's _right_," she cried, beaming at Peter. "I _cooked_. You get to clean up!"

"You _dialed_," Peter mumbled, but he got up and picked up his plate and hers, starting toward the kitchen.

"I'll, um, _help_ you," said Mozzie, and carried his plate and Neal's through the door.

Alone for the first time that evening, Neal and Elizabeth smiled at each other. "Should we be worried?" Neal asked. "There _are_ lots of breakables in there."

"Is Mozzie allergic to bleach?" El asked.

"No," said Neal, blue eyes wide and guileless. He looked toward the doorway, from which sounds of cooperation and civility were emerging. "What's up with them? What did you put into the food?" he asked in a stage whisper. El covered her mouth and laughed, cutting her eyes toward the kitchen. She did not pretend not to know what he meant, but she didn't answer him directly either.

"They _do_ seem to be getting along," she conceded. She took a sip of wine and watched Neal crane his head toward the door again. "It's about time they did, don't you think?"

"I _do_," Neal said distractedly. He realized El was smiling at him, waiting for some response, and he grinned and looked embarrassed.

"Sorry," he said. "I was just—"

"—going to offer to go dry?" El asked. Neal nodded gratefully, unfolded himself from the chair and disappeared through the door, Satchmo at his heels. She heard Neal say something, Peter's rumble of a response and Mozzie's high, nasal answer and smiled. Absently, she lifted her wineglass to her lips, but it was empty. So was the bottle. There was a noise behind her and she looked up to see Neal back at the kitchen door, his hand on Satchmo's collar.

"You're with Elizabeth, big guy," said Neal, grinning. "Too many feet in the kitchen," he explained. He tried to pet the big dog but Satchmo looked away, pouting. The instant the door closed, however, Satchmo came and sat down at Elizabeth's feet, his usual, affable self. He sniffed the air hopefully and whined, and El fed him some scraps of leftover garlic toast, then shrugged and put the lasagna pan on the floor for him to lick.

"Might as well prewash," she said, scratching between his shoulders. He stopped licking the pan and lapped at her fingers to show her he approved. When the pan was empty, if not _clean_, he looked at the kitchen door and whined, then at her.

"I know," Elizabeth said. "You were right. That went _much_ better than I thought it would." Satchmo gave his big, drooling doggy grin and she smiled, picked up the pan and carried it into the kitchen.


End file.
